E Stricker - The Almanac

Jimmer crossed his arms. Illya opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Closing his mouth, he swallowed then tried again. He tasted blood and had a giddy feeling that it would somehow give strength to his words.

“So you have decided to be food gatherers, an important job,” he said, trying to parrot Conna. Somehow, it didn’t seem to come out the same way.

“We’ll be watching you, boy. You’re going to mess up eventually, and we’ll be here to take you down,” Jimmer said. Piers Malkin, who was standing beside Jimmer, spat in Illya’s direction. It didn’t reach him but arced through the air to splat on the stair below him. They turned away, leaving Illya standing over an empty square.

He could see the field from where he stood. Benja had not come this morning, nor had Samuel. His Aunt Ada and Uncle Leo were there, though, along with his mother and sister, digging with everyone else.

He kicked his toe into the edge of the stairs, and a piece of rotten wood came away. They didn’t have any food gatherers at all now, and no one to cook either.

Conna was pointing people toward different areas of the field. He had always been good at telling people what to do. Pushy was one word for it, bully was another; one that Illya and Benja had used to describe him more than once. The people started to hack away at the thawing mud with a variety of implements. Some had real tools from the shed behind the stone house, others had sticks.

Illya made his way toward the field. Conna looked up when he neared and walked out to meet him, pulling him aside.

“You gotta do less talking, more telling,” Conna said. “They have to think you know what you’re doing.” Illya frowned.

“Did fine, though, you’ll get it,” Conna said and gave him a grin.

“Um… Thanks,” he said, shoving his hand into his pocket and running his fingers through the seeds. He wondered where Benja was.

“We still need food gatherers,” he said. “Your pa and some people were there but they…”

Conna’s expression darkened, and Illya stopped.

“Patrollers can do it,” Conna said. “They should keep going out.” Then he smiled, the anger receding from his face. “We’ll make it work. It has to work.”

Illya looked out over the field at all the people working. His mother was bending over, hacking at the soil. He still didn’t know quite how all of this had happened. He thought of the venom on Impiri’s face when she had stalked away and suppressed a shudder. Conna was right. It had to work. There was no going back now.

His mother looked up and met his eye. Her face was streaked with dirt, and she did not look happy. Illya started to walk toward her. Conna caught him by the arm before he got two paces.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to dig. I’m not just going stand here and watch,” Illya said. Conna shook his head.

“You can’t. They have to see you as a Leader, someone who is above them, someone worth following. Go over there and start digging and they will never respect you.”

“I don’t know about that—”

Conna tightened his grip on Illya’s arm.

“I’m going to help you. This idea is one of the best chances we have. But you have to be willing to do whatever it takes,” he said.

Illya stared at him, wanting to say something, to find some way to tell him he was wrong, but his words caught in his throat. He looked at his feet. Conna relaxed his grip.

“Water,” Conna said. He called out to the people. “Digging is hard work, we will stop for water.”

He directed some of the Patrollers to fetch skins of water from the river and distribute them among the people and to go find whatever shoots they could. Illya felt foolish for not thinking of water first but tried not to show it. He shuffled over to talk to his ma while Conna directed the Patrollers.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She wiped her hand across her mouth. Finally, she sighed and looked away.

“A little hard work never hurt anyone,” she said.

“No.”

“And this is what we have to do to make it work,” she said.

“Yeah.”

“Then what are you sorry for?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

She glanced over to where Conna was directing people back out to the field.

“I just hope you know what you are doing,” she said as she went back to her work.

“Me too,” he whispered, too low for her to hear. He wanted more than anything to pick up a shovel and dig alongside her, but Conna was striding towards him.

Illya turned away and closed his eyes. He wasn’t cut out to be a Leader; he didn’t know the first thing about it and he had never been one to sit by while other people worked. He was just going to have to tell Conna where things stood, that was all.

He had barely opened his mouth when he heard a commotion at the edge of the field.

Jimmer had returned, this time with Impiri and Elias beside him. He had taken a hoe from Charlie and was brandishing it in the air, yelling. It seemed he had gotten into his brew over the course of the morning. With the rest of the food gone, Jimmer appeared to be living on it.

“Waste of time and—”

Conna pushed him in the chest, cutting him off. Jimmer staggered backward, and Conna muttered to him, low-voiced. Illya caught a little of what he was saying as he neared them.

“—not going to let you ruin this like you ruin everything else,” Conna said.

“We should burn this too, along with all the rest of it.” Impiri snatched the hoe from Jimmer, who appeared ready to use it to hit Conna.

The people had left their digging to watch. Most kept their distance, but Charlie pushed his way back up to the front.

“We’re not burning anything,” he said. “And I’ll take that back.” He grabbed the hoe, trying to take it from her. They struggled over it. Impiri ripped the hoe free of Charlie’s grip and swung it. She hit Charlie, opening a gash across his forehead. He dropped to the ground. Blood poured from his head and soaked into the freshly-dug earth.

Impiri dropped the hoe with a clatter and covered her mouth with her hands. Illya fell to his knees beside Charlie, trying to remember what Samuel had taught him about bleeding. His mind had turned to mush, and the voices around him sounded like they were coming from far away.

The red slick of blood blurred in his vision.

Somewhere above him, Impiri started to babble.

“I never—“

“Shut up.” Conna snapped. “Haven’t you done enough already?”

“Pressure, direct pressure,” Illya said to himself. He pressed the heel of his hand against the gash. Charlie’s blood was hot and sticky.

“I’m going to be sick,” someone said behind him.

“Charlie, can you hear me?” he asked. The man was alive; he could tell that by the way his chest still rose and fell with breaths. Near Charlie’s temple, a pulse beat against Illya’s wrist.

Charlie groaned but did not wake up.

Impiri spoke up again.

“I didn’t mean to—“

“What if he never wakes up?” Piers said.

The bleeding had mostly stopped under the pressure, though Illya still had not moved his hand. It was slippery, and if he didn’t hold it just right, more of it welled and escaped from around his fingers. Charlie’s eyes fluttered then closed again.

Illya pressed harder against the gash. The cut would probably need to be stitched shut with the sharpened bone needles and strings of gut that Samuel kept on hand.

He swallowed. For a thing like this to happen on the first day was surely a terrible omen. Besides that, Charlie was his friend and had been one of the staunchest supporters of his idea so far. He thought of all the misgivings he’d had over reading the book in the first place and the fears he had brushed aside because he had been too curious to stop. Watching Charlie’s closed eyes, he wondered if Impiri had been right after all.